


Drabbles

by htebazytook



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Drabbles, Humor, M/M, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-06-07
Updated: 2006-06-07
Packaged: 2017-11-07 08:27:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/428952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/htebazytook/pseuds/htebazytook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I appear to've become addicted to drabbles.  That's the poetic blood getting the better of me, I think.  Recently had a fling with haikus, too.  Anyway, these aren't as obviously interconnected as the last set (<a href="http://secretgatepoems.livejournal.com/56408.html">Marathon</a>), save the last three.  Also, they get progressively darker, so apparently my subconscious is angsting.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Drabbles

**Author's Note:**

> I appear to've become addicted to drabbles. That's the poetic blood getting the better of me, I think. Recently had a fling with haikus, too. Anyway, these aren't as obviously interconnected as the last set ([Marathon](http://secretgatepoems.livejournal.com/56408.html)), save the last three. Also, they get progressively darker, so apparently my subconscious is angsting.

**Disclaimer:** <\--  
 **Author's Notes:** I appear to've become addicted to drabbles. That's the poetic blood getting the better of me, I think. Recently had a fling with haikus, too. Anyway, these aren't as obviously interconnected as the last set ([Marathon](http://secretgatepoems.livejournal.com/56408.html)), save the last three. Also, they get progressively darker, so apparently my subconscious is angsting.

 

 

**You Know**

Bowing his head, intently studying the patterns his fingertips made on the table. "Remember when we were, you know . . ."

"Do I remember when we were you-know? No, Crowley, I'm afraid I don't." But he knew very well, and his tone was teasing. Crowley didn't know what to think of that.

"Just." He was at a loss, and the only way to deal with that was to just spit it out. "Do you think we could, uh, again? Now that, I mean."

Aziraphale considered seriousness—this _was_ serious, Now That—but couldn't help laughing, leaning hopefully towards Crowley.

 

 

**Drinks All Around**

"Haha, we should be dead after drinking thiss much."

"Are we not?"

"Naaww, s'thingie. Immoral—waitthat'sjustme. Immovable."

"Stubborn. You _are_."

"Immaculate? _That's_ just _you_. Ah, ss, I'm 'orrible."

"No, but, you've got it—not right, Crowley. You mean ethereal, not importal. –Tant. Oh, bother."

"Um? Yeah, yeah, I guess. Then there'sa thing, whatcha can't speak about—"

"Unspeakable," Aziraphale agreed. "More to it, tho, mm'dear"

"Like whatever happens is gonna happen anyway. The thing . . ."

" _No_ , there's a _word_. I can' rememberit."

A sinking feeling snuck up on the demon. "Ineffable?"

"That's the one! Ineffable." Aziraphale swigged more rum triumphantly.

 

 

**Nothing to Lose**

As much as he treasured his up-town image, zooming around London was only enjoyable with a terror-stricken Aziraphale in the car.

And, although he heartily approved of (and enforced) the inhalation of carbon monoxide in stubborn city traffic jams (which he also enforced*), somehow the demon wasn't keen on breathing it in himself, no matter that breathing was optional. He told himself he took country drives for this reason.

Fields undecided between summer and autumn raced obediently away, back toward civilisation. The air was delicious, and Crowley reveled in it and himself.

He felt free at last.

 

*Caused.

 

 

**Play the Game**

Crowley was in the Bentley when he heard.

" _. . . a free, free world. All you have to do is fall in love. Play the game, yeah, play--YES, YES, I THINK IT WORKED THIS TIME—SHUT UP, BEL—_ "

"Uh. Crowley speaking?"

" _CRAWLY!_ " It was a different voice. " _WE HAD SOME DIFFICULTY GETTING THROUGH TO YOU . . ._ " it said meaningfully.

"Oh, ha, yes. Speakers on this thing are crap, you know how it is."

" _NOT REALLY_."

"Okay."

" _WE FIND IT STRANGE, ESPECIALLY CONSIDERING WE ARE ELECTRONICALLY COMMUNICATING TO COMMEND YOU._ "

And then they told him why.

 

 

**9-1-1**

Aziraphale was in the bookshop when he heard. Glued to his television too long, stuck in the kind of trance he normally reserved for Milton.

In other words, a horrified trance. And Aziraphale's television wasn't up to date, but he miracled it technicolour when the anchor talked about breaking news from America. He hadn't been there in ages. (Literally.) Unsure of what the report contained, he made cocoa.

And then they told him why.

Now, Aziraphale's cocoa was stone cold.

Crowley entered.

"I." _Got commended for it._ Crowley felt hollow.

"What if it'd happened here." _Apocalypse again._

"I don't know."

 

 

~*~

  



End file.
